


nothing's quite as sweet (as you)

by blanchtt



Series: all these hearts in line [2]
Category: Thelma (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: The Thelma she’d met her first year of university could not be more different than the Thelma she knows now. But that essential Thelma is still there—the Thelma quick to smile, eager to please, of few but well-chosen words around people she’s not yet comfortable with. The Thelma she’s fallen in love with, through puppy love and the honeymoon phase to a deeper and more mellow sort of attraction.





	nothing's quite as sweet (as you)

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely six or seven years after the movie, so just post grad school for Thelma. It feels so hard to pick careers for them since we know so little about what they were studying, but they did go to one class that sounded like it was about math or physics so I sent Thelma in a more STEM direction while with Anja I can imagine a lot of similarities between her and Kaya.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

She’s woken from her nap by the sound of the front door’s lock turning.

 

She’s fallen asleep on the couch, Anja finds, and swims back to consciousness from somewhere dark and warm. She breathes in deeply and sits up, reaches up and rakes a hand through her hair as the door opens slowly, as Thelma steps in, absently-mindedly dropping her keys in her bag. It’s only when the door’s closed and locked that Thelma looks up, sees her, and Anja catches her eyes, smiles.

 

“Hey, you,” Anja says, the rasp of sleep still there, and Thelma smiles back.

 

“Sorry,” Thelma says apologetically, putting down her things—the purse goes on the desk they’ve crammed near the door of their small apartment, the coat is thrown over the back of the desk’s chair, and the beanie discarded on a stack of magazines. A glance to the left, over at the oven in the kitchenette, tells her it’s seven fifty-eight, and Anja turns back, watches as Thelma steps out of her heels, reaches up, and takes the clasp out of her hair. “You know how it is when you’re new! Can’t leave until the boss is happy,” Thelma explains.

 

Anja shakes her head, the fuzziness of sleep just about gone, and manages to form a coherent sentence as Thelma turns to her, runs a hand haphazardly through long, blonde hair. Because of the length of time it’s been in a bun, all of it kinks to the right, and Anja hides a smile.

 

“Don’t be. How was your day?”

 

Thelma’s job as one of the more junior pharmacist keeps her late at times, a sacrifice they’re both willing to make since it pays a large part of their rent. That is hard to ignore, particularly as Anja knows her contributions to the household cover the lesser expenses. And Anja is proud of Thelma, for following what she wants to do.

 

“Good enough,” Thelma says cheerfully, which Anja knows is a humble understatement.

 

The Thelma she’d met her first year of university could not be more different than the Thelma she knows now. But that essential Thelma is still there—the Thelma quick to smile, eager to please, of few but well-chosen words around people she’s not yet comfortable with. The Thelma she’s fallen in love with, through puppy love and the honeymoon phase to a deeper and more mellow sort of attraction.

 

Anja watches Thelma walk around the couch, to stand next to her, and then to lean down. A hand touches her shoulder, Thelma gently steadying herself, and Anja leans up into the kiss.

 

It starts off innocently enough, a kiss in greeting that, by mutual understanding, turns into something longer—Thelma breaks the kiss but does not pull away, and Anja is not interested in pushing her away. Anja reaches up, hand trailing along the side of Thelma’s jaw, and coaxes her into another kiss.

 

She thinks of her friends, the ones who complain about their boyfriends only months into the relationship, doubt or jealousy or hurt clouding something that start off simply enough, and sends a silent prayer to anyone listening that that’s not their case. Six years on, and they’re doing perfectly well.

 

Anja parts her lips, feels Thelma mirror her, and lets her hand trail down Thelma’s arm until she’s drawing Thelma toward her, finger curled around her bicep. Thelma’s hand on her shoulder presses down, a familiar weigh, just enough for Thelma to steady herself, to hike the hem of her skirt up enough to raise a leg, to straddle her lap smoothly, to sit back.

 

“What’s the occasion?” Thelma teases, and Anja snorts.

 

Anja’s work is too involved for her to daydream, her position in it all too integral to check out for even a moment—it’s simply not possible to. In the middle of recording a song or directing a music video, there’s simply no time to sit still, to let her mind wander, her thoughts drift to things they’ve done in the bedroom or things they have yet to try.

 

(She tries as much as she can to keep it all local, to stay within Oslo. She thinks of her father sometimes, always away until away was the default and she had understood, and a bitter taste rises to her mouth to this day, and had vowed when she’d created her own label not to live like that. And despite a few concerts abroad, she’s kept it.)

But for a large part of the time, between all that, she spends the day at home, alone, working on lyrics or arrangements. And that leaves time for her to think about her fiancée—the word still sends thrills through her, and her mother texts her regularly to ask if they’ve picked a date yet—to put away her laptop and her headphones and to go into their shared bedroom and satisfy her imagination, at least until Thelma comes back. The perks of working from home.

 

It all comes in fits and starts, lodged into her day when she has the time for it or at times a distraction enough to swallow an entire afternoon. And right now is one of the latter.

 

“No occasion,” Anja says, and doesn’t know what to do with her hands first. She settles on touching Thelma’s breastbone, hand sliding down to her stomach, pointedly away from her breasts. “You’re just hot.”

 

Thelma, though, is not having it. She shifts closer, moves as Anja’s hand does finally, and Anja watches Thelma’s eyelashes flutter, struggling not to close her eyes as Anja cups her breasts. Thelma’s bra is in the way of her _really_ enjoying this, but that’s okay. Better than nothing at all. Anja massages gently, thinking, as she always does, that it’s pretty extraordinary to have a hot girl on top of her, to have _Thelma_ on top of her, and soft, warm breasts in her hands.

 

“In my work clothes?” Thelma asks, and Anja smirks back. Under Thelma’s weigh, she raises a leg, and tilts Thelma closer towards her. Thelma follows, leaning in, too, and Anja squeezes gently before letting go, hands flitting lower, and grasps gently at the bottom of her blouse, drawing it slowly out and untucked from Thelma’s skirt.

 

“Especially in your sexy work clothes,” Anja agrees. She feels the brush of Thelma’s hair against her collarbone, and without checking, because she’s quite absorbed in undoing Thelma’s buttons one by one, she feels the slick press of Thelma’s lips against the side of her neck, Thelma not one to be outdone.

 

Soon enough, she’s got the buttons all undone, and pushes at the shoulders of it, sliding it down first one of Thelma’s arms and then the other, with a helpful shrug from Thelma. It ends up somewhere at the far end of the couch, flung to settle wherever fate decides.

 

Anja feels a nip at her neck, grins as she reaches up to hug Thelma to herself. Another perk of working from home—professional dress code optional, including whatever marks Thelma leaves on her. That, she does not envy Thelma for. And Thelma gives it her all, a hint of a rasp of teeth before the dull sting that’s a surefire way to make her wet, and Anja lets out a satisfied breath.

 

“Feels like I’m going to have to break out my concealer,” she jokes, and Thelma makes a triumphant noise and doesn’t stop.

 

Pleasantly trapped, Anja revels in the weight of Thelma on her, slips her hands down to the clasp of Thelma’s bra and lets her fingers drag over it, trying to see it in her mind’s eye. Easy-peasy. Thumb goes here, index finger goes there, and boom. Unhooked.

 

Thelma shifts up and away a bit, just enough for Anja to coax the unhooked bra off of her just as she did her blouse, and this time when Anja cups Thelma’s breasts she almost groans herself— _you’re so incredibly gay_ , she thinks to herself, and not for the first time. Thelma’s warm and smooth and soft and she pauses in the midst of leaving love marks, makes the cutest little mewl when Anja kneads her breasts, nipples pebbled under her touch.

 

There’s a downward grind of Thelma’s hips, but the damn pencil skirt’s too tight for either of them to get much contact, and finally Anja asks, “Bed?” and feels a flush of arousal as Thelma makes only a strangled whine in response.

 

 

 

 

 

And so Anja lies on her side, head propped on an elbow, in nothing more than the yoga pants she was wearing earlier—she’s lost her shirt in the transition from living room to bedroom.

 

She likes to go first. She also likes to watch. Thelma, selflessly, lets her do both.

 

 _So chivalrous,_ she always teases, and it always gets a wide smile from Thelma.

 

Thelma, hair swept over a bare shoulder, half-stands and half-crouches in font of her little bedside table. Anja’s got one just like it on her side of the bed. But Thelma’s is distinctly _Thelma’s_. On it there is an alarm, and empty glass for water, a small vial containing Thelma’s medication to be taken before bed. Hers… is more artistic, as Thelma has put it.

 

(Anja knows, without looking, that on her bedside table is a jumble of items threatening to teeter and fall in the middle of the night some day—a stack of CDs topped with her vibrator that she’s yet to put away from yesterday; two empty cans of Red Bull; her phone, plugged into its charger; her headphones nestled within the mess; and various rings and necklaces sprinkled about.)

 

Thelma opens the bottom drawer, takes something out, and turns, hands it to her. Anja raises a brow teasingly as she accepts the harness.

 

“Excellent choice,” Anja says, and hears Thelma laugh in amusement.

 

Anja rolls onto her back and puts the harness down on the comforter next to her before bracing herself shoulders-first against the bed. It only takes thumbs hooked over the waistband of her pants and a tug, and everything’s off fairly quickly. Anja kicks the tangled mess of clothing away and hears Thelma rooting around for the rest of the items they need, and so Anja turns the harness over in her hands, finding the right holes before lifting her leg, one first and then the other, and slipping the now-supple leather up her thighs and around her hips.

 

The whole thing’s cool at first, particularly the metal rings, but Anja ignores that, concerns herself with securing the straps. It’s adjusted to Thelma’s size from the last time they’d used it, and Anja tugs on all four straps, makes sure the harness won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

 

The simple action itself is erotic, leather flush against her skin, and Anja steels herself. _Later_.

 

Secures, Anja lies slack again, looks up and to the side in time to see that Thelma’s laid the toy and the lubricant on the bed, and is currently in the process of getting rid of her skirt—Anja feels a flush of heat again as Thelma reaches behind herself, unhooks the tiny clasp and draws down the zipper, lets the skirt fall to the floor before looking at her in nothing more than sheer, dark-blue panties.

 

Anja finds that her vocabulary, and probably her entire brain, seems to have simply left. What’s left, running through her consciousness like a broken but enthusiastic record, is a string of monosyllabic words not worthy of describing Thelma or the amount of arousal that’s decided to convince her clit that it’s got it’s own heartbeat.

 

_Thighs! Ass! Pussy! Stomach! Boobs!_

 

“Fuck,” Anja hears herself say, fully aware of the crack of her voice, and takes a moment to remember the steps. Harness, check. Toy, no check. Right. Next step.

 

She grabs it—medium heft and length, black because the choice was black or white, and smooth and without features—and then the ring of the harness, slips it in with minimal fumbling as Thelma takes a knee and gets onto the bed.

 

Thelma straddles her again, settles low on her stomach, just above the harness, and Anja takes everything in, pausing. Sometimes it seems surreal. How has it all worked out so well? She wonders sometimes.

 

“Anja…”

 

But there’s nothing surreal about Thelma’s fingers clasped around her right wrist, bringing her hand between her thighs. There’s nothing surreal about the wetness there, the warmth, and Anja stays her hips, keeps from jerking uselessly, and instead focuses on Thelma.

 

In their haste they’ve failed to divest her of her panties, and Thelma’s got a blush to her and a look to her eyes that says nothing is going to get in the way of her getting what she wants _right now_ —which Anja fully agrees with—and so Anja dips her thumb carefully under the fabric, moves it away, to the side, and turns her hand. With index and ring finger she parts pretty folds, just enough to give her access, and draws the fingertip of her middle finger over Thelma’s clit.

 

The reaction is automatic. Thelma lets out a jerky breath at the same time as her hips roll forward, seeking continued contact, and Anja knows she’s found just the right spot and angle. After all this time together, learning each other’s bodies, she’s got it down to an art, for better and worse—she knows Thelma’s seizure triggers as intimately as she does ways to make her come.

 

“Anja,” Thelma whispers again, eyes closed now, and Thelma’s hands find her shoulders again, leaning against her.

 

Anja hums a reply, focuses on slow, circling motions that tease rather than satisfy. There are few things that make her prouder than knowing she’s gotten Thelma thoroughly aroused—the other three things having been the modest two-million-hit mark on YouTube, creating her own label, and keeping their houseplant alive longer than a year.

 

Not saintly enough to entirely ignore her own body, though, Anja stops, lets her hand slip a little lower, and finds her fingers immediately covered in wetness. And if that weren’t enough of a giveaway, she realizes Thelma’s hips have started a steady, insistent grind against her own.

 

“Babe,” Anja says, and has only to touch Thelma’s stomach lightly for Thelma to stop, to open her eyes, to nod in understanding.

 

She watches as Thelma sits back, as she moves but then jerks and grabs the lubricant, depositing a small amount onto her palm, and reaches behind herself, slips the lubricant the length of it with one movement and steadies the toy before lifting her hips. Anja swallows, and she’s sure it’s lecherously loud, but—fuck, it just does it for her.

 

Well, everything does when it comes to Thelma, and Thelma knows it and _uses_ it and Anja’s come without even being touched before and it certainly won’t be the last time, because Thelma bites her lower lip just so, and pale lashes flutter against her cheek as she brings the tip of the toy to her cunt, as she shifts and finds the angle, and takes it into herself, the tip first and then the length of it, slowly, until she’s sitting against Anja’s hips once again, mouth slack now and breathing shallowly.

 

Anja’s aware that she’s been entirely unhelpful throughout it all, and slides her hands up Thelma’s thighs to her hips, grasps the dip of them firmly but gently. Right now, it’s all on her, and she steadies Thelma as she braces herself, uses her hips in a smooth, rolling motion, not so much thrusting as pressing up.

 

Thelma’s head tilts back, a whine escaping her, and Anja feels her own slickness between her thighs, closes her eyes too and knows exactly how it feels when Thelma fills her, how she wants nothing more than to move. And so she does.

 

She works against Thelma’s weight gladly, and the slow motion of her hips must be doing it for Thelma because after catching her breath Thelma tilts forward slowly, until they’re face to face, foreheads nearly touching, Thelma’s upper body against hers. She’s always liked the sensation of skin on skin.

 

Anja tilts her face just a shade to the left, touches her nose to Thelma’s cheek in a nuzzle before asking quietly, “You like that, baby?” And obviously she’s pushing all the right buttons, because Thelma only nods, whining, hands clutching at her shoulders, and then Anja moves her hands to mirror her, sweeping up Thelma’s back to hold her steady as Thelma begins to move, too. Anja feels out her rhythm, misses a few strokes, but adjusts, and soon it’s an agreeable push and pull, Thelma grinding down against her and Anja rising up to meet her.

 

She’s distinctly aware of the prickle of heat against her skin all of the sudden, no doubt from their exertion. Anja grunts, Thelma’s panting rhythmic in her ear, and feels Thelma shift just so against her belly—she’s getting close enough to get justifiably slack in her movements, and Anja holds her close with one arm curled around her, but slips a hand with difficulty between them. 

 

When they’d first started having sex, she’d found Thelma to be extremely quiet. She’s assumed (correctly, as she would later tease out of Thelma in various conversations, as things are bound to come out) part of it was that the entire thing was new to Thelma, that noise and enjoying it wasn’t _allowed_.

 

But a part of it is Thelma, as well. Anja has only to touch her clit lightly a few times before Thelma goes stiff, fingernails digging into Anja’s shoulder, before Thelma shakes to orgasm with only a quick, muted gasp. It’s hot in its own way. Anja lives for that gasp, _daydreams_ about it, about all the ways she can coax it from Thelma and how many times she can do it before Thelma nudges her away, exhausted and satiated.

 

Anja feels Thelma’s weight above her, knows Thelma’s recovering by the trembling of her body, and tilts her head down, kisses Thelma’s shoulder since that’s all she can reach right now.

 

“You good?” Anja murmurs, running her hand slowly up and down Thelma’s back, and gets a noise out of Thelma that she knows from experience means yes. Knowing Thelma, it won’t take long until she’ll sit up, flushed but eager, ready to go again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But by the end of the night, toy and harness long discarded, Anja is content to fall asleep simply with Thelma in her arms.

 

She’s drifting off to sleep a little less quickly than Thelma, and registers in the darkness and quiet of the room the subtle buzz and light of her cellphone reminding her of a calendar appointment.

 

“Brunch,” Anja whispers, remembering they’d promised to stop by and visit her mother. Thelma tilts her head back at the noise, and Anja repeats more clearly, “Brunch tomorrow.”

 

Thelma makes a noise of acknowledgement, but rather than going quiet and back to sleep, she reaches for Anja’s hand, takes it and places it on her bare breast. Anja feels a flicker of want, but she’s already going to be sore tomorrow and she’s really not sure she can even possibly come again for the _nth_ time, and she quashes the feeling, contents herself with simply caressing Thelma’s nipple.

 

“She’s going to ask us about the wedding date,” Anja murmurs, the thought causing a different kind of ping of excitement, and she hears Thelma hum in thought. It had felt like they'd only just gotten engaged, and a date hadn’t yet been something they’d discussed between Thelma's new job and setting up their apartment.

 

After a moment of thought, Thelma offers, “What do you think about spring?”

 

If she had to pick, it's probably her favorite season, and Thelma knows that. Anja nods against her shoulder, and closes her eye as Thelma lays her hand on top of hers.

 

"Perfect."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
